It’s a two-bedroom, one-bathroom place with shuttered windows, peeling paint and a lawn overrun with weeds. The rest of the cul-de-sac isn’t much better, sad little townhouses phalanxed up against one another under mossy rooftops. Felicity has been here a few times, since Cole is her husband’s best friend—was his best friend—but she never realised how lonely the dwelling looked until now.
No one answered when she rang the doorbell, pounded on the door, rapped against the windows. Now she’s parked at the end of the cul-de-sac, shivering. She hasn’t turned on the heater, because the inside of the Tesla smells like Dom’s cologne, and she doesn’t want to displace the scent. If she closes her eyes, it feels like he’s sitting beside her.
‘God, I miss you,’ she whispers.
Her husband says nothing, because he’s not there. How is she supposed to go on without him?
An engine rumbles. Felicity opens her eyes in time to see a Ford Mondeo enter the cul-de-sac and park in the driveway. Cole is in the driver’s seat. Someone must have loaned him the car while the police are examining the Tarago. Lucky Cole, having such generous friends. He’s a parasite, Felicity thinks. He takes a car here, ten thousand dollars there. He even tried to borrow Oscar’s wife.
She squeezes the steering wheel so tightly it creaks. Journalists have camped outside the police station, and she’s been following their feeds. She couldn’t believe it when she saw the post: 30-year-old man released on bail.
She already told the detective Cole was the killer. Surely Clementine said the same thing. Why did the cops let him go? Even if they can’t prove the murders, he should be facing an assault charge. Felicity still doesn’t know what went wrong on the night of the partner swap, but she overheard the argument upstairs last Sunday: she knows what Cole did to his wife. A chilling thought strikes her: if they’d all picked different bedrooms, it could have been Felicity getting chained up and strangled.
Then again, if they’d chosen differently, Dom might still be alive. Felicity would endure anything for that.
Cole gets out of the car, dressed in trackpants, running shoes and a polyester jumper. Fiddling with his keys, he strolls towards the house like a man without a care in the world.
If the police won’t do their jobs, Felicity will do it for them.
She gets out of the Tesla and slams the door.
Cole hears the sound and turns, leaving his keys in the lock. His face is handsome and gentle as ever, but it doesn’t fool Felicity anymore. She knows about his violent streak.
Dom would beg her to walk away, but he’s gone. He won’t talk her down ever again.
‘Felicity.’ There’s no feeling in Cole’s tone. A blank void behind his eyes.
Felicity’s heart is racing, but she keeps her voice even. ‘We need to talk.’
Cole nods slowly. He unlocks the front door and steps aside.
Felicity hesitates, her resolve waning.
Cole smiles. ‘After you,’ he says.